Monday, 15 June 2015

Fanny loves churches. Especially old, idyllic country churches. There's nothing more delightful than a landscape punctuated by a spire rising from the somnolent water-meadows of the English Shires. When feeling all churchy, I love nothing more than a rousing chorus (perhaps Cum All Ye Faithful), and passing the collection pot and dropping in a few drachmas or pesetas, whispering the Lord's prayer in reverence, and then when the service is over, going to the Rectory for tea and scones and, later on, having a play on the Vicar's organ. English churches are a bit like English cottages and cottaging. They become habit-forming. In fact, in all the world there's not a more religious country than England where anyone who is of high social standing goes to church on Sunday morning, and then cottaging on Sunday afternoon.

Here I am, on Sunday morning, at my local St Helen's Church, just
about to go in for the service. The Sung Eucharist had just begun with
All Creatures Great and Small and just as I gaily skipped up the steps, my
right contact lens fell out. Rather than suffer the humiliation of not
being to see the words in the choirbook, I spent a good ten minutes
looking for it. The Rector glared at me as I hobbled into the dimly lit church, with only one seeing eye. His
paper-thin lips paused mid-song, giving the look of someone sucking on a
very large, very over-ripe plum. I've come over a bit church-y lately, hence my rare appearance in the pews.

Thursday, 11 June 2015

After a night of whiskey chasers, fishbowls of rum punch and vodka slammers, I woke this morning, took a 2-hour bath in asses' milk and was just about to powder my nose in the ornate, gem-encrusted Louis Quatorze hand-mirror when I saw this terrifying vision. Not my face reflected in the mirror, but the ugly face of my uncouth maid, Basil. This was so disturbing I had to take an ice-bath and lay down in a darkened room for 3 hours. The sound of my vomiting was like a lorryload of coal being delivered. I've never had an hallucination in my life, before now, and I frequently pop Valium like they're a tube of Smarties, and follow it up by marijuana marmite on toast for breakfast.

Wednesday, 3 June 2015

Do you like my new bikini? Yes, it's very different. An Italian designer created it for me. Two plastic bags full of goldfish. They've got names too: Jasper, John, and Judas in the left breast-pouch. And Rachel, Melissa and Yvonne in the right breast-pouch. Admittedly, it's a little bit different to the usual 'boob-tube' I'm seen wearing by the paparazzi.

About Me

My name is Fanny Love. Described by the media as "like Alice in Wonderland, on acid",
I'm a Texan-born transvestite, who also happens to be a part-time super model, celebrated authoress and occasional shoplifter. I adore the company of beautiful young men at my isolated country estate in the English countryside. Join me on my unorthodox travels around little England, accompanied by Juan (my pin-up Brazilian chauffeur) and my two adorable dogs, Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (a rainbow-dyed poodle) and Brenda (a 3-year old Doberman bitch with an obsession about red stilettos).